


Sweets for My Sweet

by candesgirl



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Thor (2011)
Genre: Crack, Food, M/M, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:07:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candesgirl/pseuds/candesgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil wants, he's going a little crazy with it on that drive to New Mexico. It's the donuts that push them over that edge, in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweets for My Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> There is so much blame to be placed, here. Twitter feed, I'm looking at you. This is cracky stuff with a little bit of smut and a lot of sexual tension. And some chocolate donuts.
> 
> Set during A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Thor's Hammer. You don't need to have seen that to read this, you just have to know that Phil is a badass, Clint likes chocolate donuts, and these two want each other so bad it hurts, me mostly, but still.

Their thing, it started in New Mexico. It started on the way to Thor’s Hammer, after an anything but routine stop for gas and, well, for donuts. The car had needed gas, sure, and Phil had wanted to stretch his legs, sure, but really he’d have sworn to any deity listening - which would prove ironic, later, after meeting a GOD and all, that he just wanted some junk food. Lil’ Debbie, preferably. Sugary. Powdery. Laden with fat. Maybe coated in a waxy, chocolate like substance. Not for him, though, no. Phil liked his junk - pun intended - just as much as any other secret government agent who saw the kitchen as nothing more than the housing for a much needed coffee pot (and maybe those cabinets were good for storing a gun. A knife. Extra arrows - in case an archer was around and might need them - you get the point.) But Phil, he didn’t like his junk as much as Barton did - pun again intended. 

Truth is, the guy ate like a twelve year old with a couple of bucks, let loose in a convenience store for the first time. Gummies? Yes. Chocolate? OH YES. That weird powdered shit that you dip the chalk like stick in - and you don’t even want to get Phil started on that, on Barton swirling his tongue around a fucking chalky white piece of candy and staring at him with those ridiculous eyes and that even more ridiculous mouth. And Barton, he of the poor eating habits and lewd-but-effective candy sucking as flirting techniques, happened to be asleep in the front seat of Phil’s car, SHEILD’s car - whatever - the car, the car that was almost out of gas anyway. 

He’d thought of waking Barton, asking him what he wanted - and yeah, Phil can admit, he likes to hear Barton’s answer to that question, he likes to hear Barton’s barely concealed innuendo, likes to watch Barton’s own hand creep up his own thigh and rest on his own crotch as he answers, ‘What do I want, Boss? Whatever you want, Sir’, looking at up at him through heavy lidded eyes and with a rough voice that implies - to Phil’s brain, or maybe to his other parts - ‘hey, this is what I sound like when my throat gets fucked raw. Just so you know.’

So he’d thought of waking him, of asking him what he wanted, of bracing himself through the actual answer of what Barton wanted, but then his phone went off and damn it, when did Barton have time to change his text tone to Donna Summer’s Love to Love You Baby? And more importantly, how did Barton know that Phil liked Donna Summer? And yeah, he really didn’t need that, the whole sexy song that’s like a big long orgasm being at all in his mind related to anything Barton. And yet.

Quick look at the phone showed a message from Fury, something about hurrying the hell up and keeping his boy in line and saving that shit for later, after they found out if it was a God they were dealing with and Phil wondered how that all fit into one text and speaking of God - seriously, how did Barton know about the song and if he asked nicely - because he wouldn’t beg Barton to sing for him, nope, not unless maybe Barton wanted him to and OH GOD maybe Barton wanted him to, or maybe Barton could beg for something. Yeah, yeah Phil is sure that Barton can beg and sing the stupid orgasmic song and damn it, he’s filling the tank and walking into the store and then he’s just standing there in front of the donuts, thoughts of Fury, and Barton, and Donna Summer swirling in his head. For the record, that’s not a thought he ever wants again. 

Then this guy, he tries to rob the fucking place. Amateur, Phil had thought at the time, nothing a bag of flour and a couple of pretty badass moves couldn’t fix, if he does say so himself. The guy is out, and hey, he’s pretty sure he earned himself an appreciative glance back there at the counter, and sure maybe the girl noticed his raging hard on and thought it was for her, or because of the adrenaline, or whatever and that’s what Phil’d like to blame it on too but no. No, Phil is pretty sure that while the adrenaline could and would explain it, the uncomfortable walk back to the car is because of Barton, and the thought that maybe Barton had seen that bit of badassery, and the thought that yeah, Barton loves it when Phil kicks some ass and maybe this is that final push and maybe Phil has some hero worship coming his way. Or something. He’s not sure when he started thinking like this. He suspects it has something to do with spending all of his free time with Barton. And from having a boss who sends texts calling Barton ‘his boy’ and implying things that just aren’t going to fucking happen because Phil’s life is absurd, chasing after a God is absurd, his thing for Barton is definitely absurd.

Turns out Barton didn’t see any of it anyway. Not a damn bit of it. Phil is irrationally angry about that, wrenches open the car door, throws the two packages of donuts at Barton, slams the door shut and peels out of there like he’s the one who tried to rob the place. Barton’s up then, Phil can tell by the way his breathing changes, and shit, doesn’t that need looking over, the fact that Phil can tell by Barton’s breathing whether or not he’s awake, the fact that he’s stood watch over Barton’s sleeping body enough to know how things like breathing, and stretching, and wait. Wait. Barton’s stretching, arms lifting up to hit the roof of the car, shirt halfway up his stupidly taut stomach, and damn it that noise that comes out of Barton is filthy and Jesus, fuck, he’s starting to think maybe Barton does this shit on purpose.

Donuts, Phil thinks, or maybe he says it out loud because Barton is reaching down between his legs to grab the packages - more puns - and damn it Phil can’t remember if he was ever jealous of a woman because of her proximity to a man, but right now he’s thinking about throwing down with Lil’ Debbie who seems to be quite content rubbing all up against Barton. Phil barely stifles a laugh, because he’s ridiculous, and he’s mad at a crinkly, melting package of donuts. 

‘Hey,’ Barton says in that throat-fucked-raw voice and Phil’s hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter. ‘Donuts.’

‘Donuts,’ Phil says again, because he can’t think of something else to say that isn’t ‘Can we please pull over and fuck now?’

‘Boss man, you okay?,’ Barton asks as he tears into the pack of chocolatey goodness. He shoves one into his mouth. ‘You look a little flushed.’

‘Stopped a robbery,’ Phil says, and Barton thinks he’s kidding, and Phil resists the urge to pout and tell him he was a badass and again, ask him if they could just pull over and fuck already, please. ‘You shouldn’t talk with your mouth full, Barton’, Phil says instead, regrets it as soon as the words leave him because he just knows that Barton is going to tell him exactly what he can do with a mouthful and hey maybe Phil should try to shut his mouth for him and you know, really, all Phil wants out of life then is to actually shut Barton up - and by shut him up he means shove his dick down his throat. 

And Phil really has to stop doing that, thinking things like that when he’s all doped up on adrenaline and want and caffeine and no sleep because he’s not just thinking these things, he’s maybe saying them and fuck, did he - yeah, he just told Barton that he wanted to drive his painfully hard dick down Barton’s stupid throat. 

‘Sir -’ Barton says, and Phil is hot all over, wants the road to open up and just swallow him whole and wonders what the fuck is wrong with him that he can only think in innuendo anymore, anyway. He laughs, sort of, it’s a sound anyway, and he grabs the donuts from where they lay between Barton’s thighs, trying to think of anything but swallowing and throats and licking and damn it, he shoves a warm, gooey, melty chocolate donut in his mouth to keep himself from saying anything else at all. He eats the donut, and another, not looking in Barton’s direction, eyes on the road as he tries to wipe the melted chocolate from his fingers and onto his thousands of dollars suit. Barton stops him, catches his wrist and leans towards Phil, again with the ‘Sir’, again with that tone and that word.

Phil thinks his brain must be short circuiting because it feels like Barton is touching his lips to Phil’s fingers. He looks, because he has to, because this is his life, driving down a dusty road in the middle of nowhere while his - the guy he wants - drags his tongue over his sticky fingers, sucks them into his mouth and makes slurpy sounds. Then Barton moans around Phil’s fingers like he’s hungry and Phil’s the most satisfying meal he’s ever had and Jesus Christ when did Phil pull to the side of the road and stop the car?

Barton is on top of him in the driver’s seat, wasting no time with his special brand of dirty talk, tells Phil it’s about time he let him do the driving, lewd meaning not lost with the way he grinds his hips down against Phil. Phil thinks he might be delirious - and by he, he means himself, perhaps Barton - that this might be a fevered dream or something, maybe he was knocked out back at that gas station, not such a badass after all, but he’s chasing the taste of chocolate in Barton’s mouth, thinking again about his throat and his lips and Barton pulls back, looks at him under those heavy eyelids.

‘You taste like chocolate donuts, Sir,’ Barton tells him, and Phil raises his eyebrows, looks at the forlorn package of powdered donuts on the abandoned passenger’s seat, imagines what Barton’s fingers would taste like coated in white sugar. 

‘Donuts,’ Phil says against Barton’s lips.


End file.
